A Piece of My Heart

Part 74:The God Chaos

Later that night, after the laughter and the "engagement ceremony" with the napkin ring, Freddie and Cynthia lay sprawled on the floor like two overfed cats, surrounded by empty dessert plates and the soft glow of lamplight.

Cynthia traced lazy circles on Freddie's chest. "So. What do you think the future looks like? Besides me doing background checks on everyone at your concerts?"

Freddie smirked. "Well, obviously we'll be living in a palatial penthouse with walls made of speakers. The nursery will double as a sound booth. The baby's first word will be Darling."

She grinned. "I was thinking something more traditional. Like 'Mama' or 'World Domination.'"

"Oh, I like that. Start them early. By five, they'll be running your company. By ten, they'll be headlining Madison Square Garden."

Cynthia laughed. "And you?"

Freddie grew more thoughtful. "I want to wake up every day and hear you threatening to fire someone before coffee. I want to spend my nights writing songs inspired by the weird things you say in your sleep."

"I don't talk in my sleep."

"You sing, darling. Once you hummed the theme to Dallas in perfect pitch. I've never been more aroused and confused."

She threw a pillow at him, then softened. "I want quiet mornings. A garden, maybe. I know we're both loud and dramatic, but I picture a quiet kind of life. A baby on my hip. You in the kitchen pretending you know how to boil water."

"I'll have you know I can make toast. Badly."

"I want us old and gray and still laughing about nonsense. Still madly in love."

Freddie reached over, brushing a crumb off her cheek. "I want the same. Chaos and calm. Music and silence. You. Always you."

They lay there quietly for a moment, tangled together, their future vast and unwritten—but suddenly, so beautifully possible.

Freddie was sprawled across the couch in a silk robe, flipping through swatches of fabric like a rockstar Vogue editor. Cynthia, on a call with the florist, muttered, "No, no baby's breath. Freddie says it reminds him of a bad wig."

In walked Brian May holding a binder labeled Operation Matrimony, followed closely by Roger Taylor with a clipboard and sunglasses—indoors. But the real surprise came when John Deacon, usually quiet and reserved, entered wearing a tiara.

"We voted," John said with mock seriousness. "I'm the flower boy."

Everyone stared.

"I want to throw petals," he added with a shrug. "I've already practiced my twirl."

Freddie fell off the couch laughing, clutching a champagne flute. "Darling, if you don't do a twirl in those flared jeans, we're canceling the honeymoon!"

Brian had notes about acoustic setups for the vows. Roger insisted on drumming Cynthia's entrance music live. And John? He started choreographing his petal routine with alarming focus.

Later, Cynthia whispered to Freddie, "Your band might actually steal the show."

Freddie beamed. "Good. I wouldn't marry into anything less than fabulous chaos."

The official wedding planning meeting had started in the penthouse kitchen—with croissants, champagne, and a giant whiteboard titled "The Love Tour: Wedding Edition."

Rosalie was drawing color-coded diagrams. Karen was trying to keep everyone focused. Cynthia, in a crisp blazer and bare feet, was sipping espresso and threatening to elope in Vegas if anyone mentioned live doves again.